How I Died For Sherlock Holmes
by morriarttyy
Summary: Before life at Baker Street, there was life at Montague Street. Sherlock unwittingly finds himself taking on an assistant when an annoying anonymous tipper turns out to be the head of the entire homeless network in London. And according to his brother, there was never any record of her ever existing. R&R please and thank you.


_How I Died For Sherlock Holmes_

Chapter 1: Meeting

He was twitchy, anxious even. There was never enough stimulation for him when he really needed. He _really_ needed it. Life was so mundane and fragile. People walked about around him with their dull boring lives, they never even realised that their spouses or other were cheating on them or lying to them. He knew liars when he saw them. They were easy to spot; he was surprised that people usually had a hard time doing that. Then again, people were always so _stupid_.

Normal hobbies had no appeal to him. Nothing could hold his attention for very long except a hard-to-solve mystery. He loved mysteries, he longed for them. Something to solve, something to crack, something that could get his mind working. His mind, like a locomotive running at full speed with no tracks. Sitting idly by was never his forte. So when the phone rang, he made a mad jump towards it.

"Did you find it?" he snapped into the receiver.

"Even better," the voice on the other end said. "We found the murderer!"

"What? How? Without the evidence?" his face scrunched up in disbelief.

"We have the evidence, and we have a witness," Lestrade told him. "Look, remember I was telling you about those anonymous tips?"

"Yes?"

"Well, we know who she is."

The anonymous tipper. So it was a woman. For some reason, she always knew what cases he took on from the police. She always had a good tip that would lead them to find the hard evidence that they needed. He hated her; she always took away all his fun. It was still a puzzle he was yet to solve. _How_ did she get all her information, and from where?

"Do you know where she is?"

"Yeah, I'll text you the details."

Sherlock put down the phone and tapped his fingers on the table impatiently. His phone rang a minute later with a message from Lestrade. He clenched his fists tightly into balls. The tipper had been following him closely for months now. Always trying to upstage him. Sometimes, she had the upper hand by knowing something that he did not and that really set him on edge. It was not, according to him, _fair_. She had an advantage, whatever it was, and he had to solve the crimes from scratch. If he could level out the playing field, he was definitely sure that he would win.

He quickly checked the message on his phone and ran through the possibilities in his head. He went into his bedroom and tore through his closet to change into something more suitable for the occasion. After a quick run through and some extra touch ups to his appearance, he was ready to head out. The address was not far from his apartment, and he knew _exactly_ who he had to talk with.

* * *

The house on Bell Street was a familiar haunt for people of… a particular interest. He had been there a few times in the past and he knew the person who ran it. Dylan was a wiry man with a mop of dirty curls on his head. The only reason Sherlock spoke to him was because he was excellent at acquiring goods of specific qualities. God knows how he manages it. The establishment looked exactly like how any crack den would look like for an addict seeking comforting solace and a good high.

Most of the people were strewn about upstairs but he enjoyed the kitchen because nobody went in there. However, unfortunately or fortunately for him, there was one woman sitting on the floor with her back against the wall. She was smoking a joint and staring at the wall. When they walked in, she turned her head languidly to look at them.

"Took your time," she said to Dylan.

"Met a friend along the way," the man clapped a grimy hand on his shoulder. "This is Shezza."

"Shezza?" she scoffed, looking at him closely.

"Yeap, Shezza's joining us for a blow," Dylan told her. "I'll set it right up here, you guys have a chat while I'm at it."

He walked around to the solitary table in the room that looked like it was at the inch of its life. He took out a bag of white powder from his jacket pocket and started cutting up the substance. Sherlock walked over to the woman who had stood up now. She offered him her joint and he took a puff, holding it in a while before exhaling.

"Never seen you here before," she told him, taking back the joint.

"Haven't needed to come," he replied, scrutinising her.

She looked up at him with wide brown eyes that were obviously dilated. But for some reason, he knew that she was still completely in control of herself. Dylan called them over once he had finished his lines. He motioned for her to go first and she did so with a knowing glance. He wished he were on a case, as this would definitely have helped speed up all his thought processes. The effect it had on the woman was amazing, however. She let out a deep sigh and tilted her head backward. He could instantly see the cocaine hurling her mind back into motion, counteracting the effects of the THC she had before. She looked at him with an almost wild look. There was no doubt in his mind that she had things to say to him.

"So _Shezza_," she started, slinking forwards like a cat.

She handed him the rolled up twenty pound note and he took it. He pressed his lips together and leaned forwards to blow his line. The effect was almost instantaneous and he let out a gasp. It was a long time since he had done this. She smiled. Dylan had gone out of the room, saying something that he did not care to listen to. The only thing that interested him at the moment was the woman in front of him, which was the reason he was there at all.

"That look isn't fooling anyone," she walked around him like a predator hunting its prey.

"I wasn't trying to fool anyone," he told her.

"I know," she said. "I know you're here to see me."

He clenched his jaw and she could see the little muscle in it twitch.

"So Lestrade finally tracked me down," she smiled. "A little longer than I had hoped for."

"You've been stealing my cases," he told her. "Stop it."

"But I was only having fun," she crooned. "And I thought you might have liked the distraction. The feeling of competition."

"It's not competition when you have an unfair advantage," he told her. "What is it? You must have some kind of information channel."

"A network," she said. "I have a network. A bloody good one too, if you ask me."

"What kind of network?" he asked.

She licked her lips and looked at him with her burning dark eyes.

"What?" he snapped. "You want something from me, is that it?"

"I need your help," she told him.

"_My_ help?' he asked, taken aback. "With what?"

"Do you agree?" she asked.

"Why should I help you?" he asked back. "You're obviously someone who's lost it all and is now living on the streets. You're bored; substance abuse isn't working for you anymore so you've turned to other means of entertainment by annoying me. You say you have a network so you must be resourceful, you don't need my help. You seem perfectly capable of handling this yourself."

"Oh, no, not this particular case," she told him. "Besides, it's not that. You brother is the British government. I need _protection_."

"Protection?" he frowned at her. "You're trying to get to my brother through me?"

"Well, you'll be good enough but your brother would be an added bonus," she said. "Besides, he's concerned about you, isn't he? Like all big brothers are. What would he say when he catches wind of your little trip down to Bell Street, hm?"

"You wouldn't," he narrowed his eyes.

"I know people who know people," she crossed her arms and rested her chin on a hand.

"Then why do you need me?" he asked.

"Like I said; protection."

"Give me one good reason why I should help you," he said.

She sighed and uncrossed her arms, placing her hands on the table. She looked at him, thinking.

"Fine," she said at last. "I'll give you access to my network."

"You haven't told me what network it is."

"A homeless network," she said. "Not all of us are useless or stupid, we have our… benefits. It's a wide network that spans the whole of London, my ears and eyes all over the city. That's why I can be a step ahead of you."

"Why would they want to do that?"

"Nothing better to do? Besides, I told them about you and… they were very interested," she shrugged.

He looked away in thought, feeling a little pleased at this little bit of information. She could see the ghost of a smile on his face.

"Is that all?" he asked her.

"What?" she blinked in confusion.

"You just get all the information from your network? Is that it?" he asked, a hint of disappointment in his voice.

She frowned deeply at him before quickly dawning on the realisation.

"Oh, you want me… to prove myself?" she raised her eyebrows. "You don't think I'm clever?"

"Are you?" he raised an eyebrow challengingly. "Here."

He threw his phone towards her and she caught it expertly.

"Lestrade sent me that half an hour ago, what can you make of it?"

She cleared her throat and took a look at the phone where there was a picture of a corpse.

"This is hardly the kind of thing to impress a woman, Mr Holmes," she commented. "Although I'm not most women. An office worker, by the looks of it. He's been traveling… to Spain apparently. Looks to be about three days ago, cause of death being… asphyxiation with a- oh… no. Not asphyxiation, a punctured lung. He was beaten to death and _then_ strangled with a wire. Three days ago, that's Jenkins Exports. They had an ad about it. I imagine a deal must have gone sour or he had bad debts."

She threw the phone back to him. He caught it and made a face.

"Okay," he said grudgingly.

"Just okay?" she gave him a look.

"Anyone could have figured that out."

"No, they couldn't, if they did, Lestrade wouldn't have sent it to you."

"Fine. Adequate."

She laughed. "I'll take it, thank you."

"It wasn't a compliment."

"You and I are alike, you know," she told him.

"Alike? How?" he cocked his head.

"You're a sociopath with a drug addiction and you solve cases as a substitute to getting high," she crossed her arms, tongue in cheek.

He knew she had a point and she knew that he knew, and he hated it. His phone rang again and he checked it to find a new email. He scanned the contents and pocketed his phone, looking around in thought. His eyes then settled back on her.

"What's your name?"

"Adria."

"Do you want to see more?"

"Sorry?" she shook her head.

"Cases. You said you liked to solve cases. Well, do you want to see more?" he asked her.

She looked at him with those wide dark eyes, now gone back to normal after the effects of the drug had worn off. He could now see the sharp keenness in them, and the intelligent calculative stare.

She licked her lips.

"Yes."

"Well, then, let's go."

* * *

Disclaimer: This story is not for any commercial use and does not give me any profit at all. It exists solely as a creative outlet. All rights belong to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and the BBC.

A/N: First Sherlock fanfiction, have been working on a story for ages and finally got some proper inspiration from The Network. Reviews are more than welcome and are appreciated to the end of time. Hope you enjoyed it and have a lovely day! x


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